


i hope you've been well

by diphylleias



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27871574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diphylleias/pseuds/diphylleias
Summary: Kageyama Kazuyo's grave is adorned with a small bouquet of white chrysanthemums.
Comments: 29
Kudos: 92





	i hope you've been well

Kageyama Kazuyo's grave is adorned with a small bouquet of white chrysanthemums.

Tobio blinks at the sight. The petals look unnervingly bright, hurling the early morning sunlight back at him in full force. They’re fresh, too, he notes in dull surprise. A day old a most. Miwa must have stopped by sometime yesterday on her way home from work.

He pulls out his earbuds hastily, hitting pause and stuffing them in the pocket of his tracksuit as a weird, cosmic energy in the cemetery seems to click its tongue at him in disappointment. Tobio folds his legs clumsily, settling down on the sparse clumps of grass in a crisscross position as he faces the sleek headstone that reads _Kageyama Kazuyo_ in elegant kanji.

 _Hi_ doesn’t feel quite right. But neither does _it’s been a while_ , awkwardly muttered like the day Ushijima Wakatoshi had dipped his head in greeting at the Schweiden Adlers tryouts and Tobio had scrambled for something to say.

 _Kazuyo-san,_ he used to call his grandfather. A name that he learned far too young was not the typical title other six-year-old boys referred to their grandfathers. You know, the boys with perfectly arranged _bentos_ and a pretty mother and a deep-voiced father that attended every single school event with smiles so wide they seemed plastic.

The syllables sit heavy and strange on his tongue—out of use for far too long. So Tobio inhales. Exhales quiet, slow, listening to sound of his breath cut through the stillness of the air. 

Kazuyo’s hand in his. A gentle laugh in his ear. The red sprawl across his palms after a day of volleyball. Sterile smell of a hospital room. _Tobio_. Stiff black suit. Miwa biting her lip to death—as if she’d rather bleed than let Tobio see her cry. An emptiness so suffocating his lungs are still mottled with bruises. Volleyball, volleyball, _volleyball_. Laughter. Fond pats on the back. Bouquet of white chrysanthemums. Etched in stone, chest, memory: _Kageyama Kazuyo_.

People only ever see the strength of an athlete’s body. Never the splintered promises puddling at the floor of their ribcage, or the sounds of an older sister’s tears you were never supposed to hear. There’s muscle and there’s power and there’s a _wow, a fifth consecutive service ace!_ And there’s this, too—emotion that swells and builds and burns just as terrible as feeling a wrinkled hand turn cold against your stubby, junior-high fingers.

 _I did it_ , Tobio wants to yell. _I met so many stronger people. And I’m good now. If you could see me play. If you could see me play. I’m so, so, so good, now._

People only ever see the strength of an athlete’s body. _Do your parents come to watch your games?_ An interviewer had asked once, curious eyes and mascara-slick lashes that looked like daggers. Felt like worse. _I’m sure they’re proud of you, aren’t they?_ A camera shoved in his face—too fancy, too loud. Words wrenching open the ugly, tattered thing in his chest.

The breeze is kissing the nape of his neck. His hands, cheek, the side of his jaw. Presses gently against his skin and slowly, carefully teases apart the knot in his chest. The chrysanthemums are still staring up at him patiently. Still beautiful, effervescent beneath the sun and whispering _take your time. Take your time. Take your time_.

Each season, all V-league athletes are granted three free passes to give to family members. These things don’t sting as much anymore, not really, when there are cheerful old upperclassmen to give the tickets to, or adolescent-enemies turned friends, or all those other people out there who’ve pinched his cheek ruffled his hair jabbed his ribs held his hand wished him well hugged him so hard the sheer warmth was dizzying, terrifying, electrifying—all those other people out there. Who’ve painted over the fractured bits with silly colors and designs and spun the broken tangle behind his ribs into some vibrant, mosaicked lifeline worthy of being shown off.

 _I met so many stronger people,_ Tobio thinks again. Less urgent. More sure. _And I’m good now. If you could see me play. If you could see me play. I’m so, so, so good, now._

The chrysanthemums, shining. Sun washing down his back. _Are you proud of me_? Breeze still summer-sweet against his skin, tickling his palm like the ghost of a grandfather’s touch.

Tobio inhales, and begins to speak.

**Author's Note:**

> [x](https://open.spotify.com/track/0FiInivN1aBhzKM3UtHM3l?si=OG7ZMjr0QTmLUVX27E0Y5w).


End file.
